


A Crown of Oleander

by Homicide_Hollandaise



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Description, Grooming, Hand Jobs, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Pederasty, Pregnancy, Rape, Sadism, Sexual Slavery, Sexual Violence, Starvation, Torture, Underage - Freeform, more tags to be added as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Homicide_Hollandaise/pseuds/Homicide_Hollandaise
Summary: Puppy is well used to his role as camp whore. After being violently ripped from his old life, he knows there's no way to ever return to it. Living at the edges of society amongst a group of violent mercenaries, he's only been peripherally aware of the changes taking place in his country, a rage growing among the common people that's about to explode into a bloody revolution.When he's witness to a brutal execution that mirrors the way his own family was taken from him, Puppy risks everything to intervene. But the young boy he saves may not be the blameless innocent that he seems.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> While it's obvious that this story took a lot of inspiration from the Russian Civil War and the execution of the Romanovs, this is not a 1:1 allegory and is not intended to be any kind of "deep" political commentary in one direction or another. It's just a story about terrible people doing terrible things to each other. If you are an executed Russian royal family member and have something to say about the depiction of nobles, commoners, rebels and/or insane sexual deviants in this story you are welcome to DM me.

Rain is pouring on the roof of the tent. 

I prefer rain to snow: in the darkest parts of winter, snow falls swift and silent, and the bitter cold that follows kills the unwary and turns even the closest of friends against each other. Rain brings greenery, and wildflowers, and warmer weather, even if three days of it has made everything begin to stink like mildew and wet fur. 

Petyr is careful about bathing, but Gregor isn't, and the worst of the smell is coming from him. The rest of the men in the tent are still wearing a winter's worth of grime and stale sweat, overlaid now by the tacky sort of mud that forms from mixing dirt with horse shit. 

I turn my head and tuck it against Petyr's shoulder, breathing in. There's sweat there as well, but it's cleaner, a mannish smell of recent exertion and the familiar musk of sex. He usually gives me time to wash after he's fucked me, but he'd hardly done with me this afternoon when Gregor had bumbled in with a cypher clutched in his fist; now as I curl against Petyr's side I can feel his come oozing stickily down the inside of my thigh.

Eyes closed, I listen, half to the rain and half to the conversation happening over my head. In seven years I've learned enough Drumtan to understand perhaps one word in five, more if it's Petyr doing the talking. He speaks clearly, in even and confident tones that make it easy to find the places where his language and mine overlap. But Gregor's accent has always been impossible to decipher, and the other men speak a dialect that has always sounded to me like animals growling to one another, and tonight Petyr is doing more listening than speaking.

I make out "Jonnesburg" and "tomorrow," and another man barks something about the rain and the river. Perhaps we'll be following the snowmelt down out of the mountains. Perhaps we'll find a stretch of river warm enough for everyone to bathe and wash their clothes in. It's early in the spring for one of Petyr's raids, but if the message he's received holds news of a good lambing season in the valleys it would mean a good start on a fat summer. 

The tent flap parts to admit one of the camp boys carrying a dented bucket. I smell cooked meat and perk immediately; the winter's been long and we've had nothing but lentils and pig knuckles for weeks. Either someone's finally caught something in one of the snares or they've butchered another one of the dogs. There's bread, too, not fresh, but it's thick and dark and when Gregor splits the loaf open I can nearly taste the honey and walnuts its made with.

Petyr fishes a hunk of meat out of the bucket first. It's a leg, too big to be chicken-- maybe turkey, or rabbit, cooked so long that it’s nearly falling off the bone and dripping with greasy broth. The rest of the men descend on the bucket to get their share. I watch silently, thinking of how the three camp boys are likely sharing the fat skimmed off the stew and Petyr’s dogs will get the bones to crack when they've been sucked clean. 

I'm hungry, but far from starving, and I know better than to draw too much attention to myself in lean times. Petyr will make sure that I'm fed, though often it's only the dregs at the bottom of the stew pot. It's better in the summer when the camp is flush with money and food and whores. 

And fruit. I miss fruit.

"What's the matter, Pup?"

I blink. I realize I've been staring at Petyr as he eats and quickly look away. He takes my chin in his hand and turns me to face him, leaning a little closer. "What's the matter, hm? Are you hungry?"

I lick my lips. Beside us, Gregor chuckles, dirty fingers in his mouth. Petyr turns the bone in his hand; there's one good bite of meat still clinging to it, and a generous bit of gristle. It hasn't been so long since he's fucked me, and he's always in his best moods after he's had a release. I try to keep my eyes on his, but they keep straying to the meat. 

Petyr smiles. He leans in to kiss me, letting me suck the grease from his tongue and his bottom lip. The corners of his mouth are slick with it and I work my tongue there, rasping it across the stubble on his chin and down to his adam's apple. His fingers next, I think, and the palms of his hands, but he pushes me away. "Enough," he laughs. "That's enough. Here."

I am almost foolish enough to believe he's offering me the last bite. I know it would amuse him and the other men to watch me snap at it as he pulled it out of my reach. But he sees me hesitate and blesses me with the faintest look of approval as he rips the last shred of meat off of the bone. He chews it far longer than he needs to, savoring it, watching me watch him, then seizes my face in his hand and forces the sodden, masticated lump of meat and saliva into my mouth.

It's fortunate that I don't gag as easily as I used to. It still takes me two tries to swallow, clamping my mouth shut and ducking my head. Even chewed, the meat has a rich, gamey taste, delicious and silky on my tongue. I look up at Petyr, tongue moistening my lips again, but he's already gnawing the gristle off of the bone and doesn't seem inclined to share any more. I glance over at the nearly empty bucket, resigning myself to dregs. One bite of real meat is one more than I'd thought I'd get tonight, anyway.

"Puppy. Here, Pup. You want?" Gregor has the heel of the honeyed bread, waving it back and forth. "Come here."

I slip off of Petyr's lap, edging closer to Gregor. He gathers me to him, enveloping me in his stink, and cards his thick fingers through my hair. I reach for the bread, but he holds it away from me, _tut-tutting._ In his thick, mush-mouthed accent, he says, "Do for me, first."

I'm not stupid. I know what Gregor wants from me and I know he hasn't bathed or changed clothes since the first of the heavy snows two months ago. The last time I'd sucked him off, Petyr had forced me to wash my mouth out with wine afterwards. But for all his filthy habits and bumbling ways, he isn't violent: the sour, sticky taste of his cock on my tongue is likely to be the only lingering complaint from our exchange.

It's a very generous portion of bread, too.

Gregor mouths clumsily at my neck, the untrimmed bristle of his beard rasping against my skin. He paws at my thighs and I make a soft, low sound of pretended interest. His answering growl is in Drumtan, a string of incomprehensible words riding on a breath that smells of sour beer. 

"Take him somewhere else, Gregor," Petyr says. "No one wants to see your nasty prick." 

Gregor hooks an arm around my waist as if he's going to sling me over his shoulder. "Meeting done?"

Petyr rolls his eyes, spits something in Drumtan. Some of the other men chuckle. Gregor gets to his feet, pulling me with him, and there is a ripple of noise and movement as several of the others gather their things to leave as well. I'm tugged toward the tent flap; as we go, I watch Gregor shove the heel of bread into his coat pocket. 

*

I huddle down in the wooden truckbed, trying to keep my back to the wind. The torrential rains have melted much of the snow into gray slush, but the temperatures at night were still cold enough to put a hard cap of frost on the muddy roads. I should be grateful: currently, the ice is what's keeping the wheels from getting stuck, and the only thing worse than being cold is Petyr in a foul mood because we've lost valuable time trying to get a truck out of the mud. 

When we're camped, it's easy for me to find enough warmth with another person if I'm willing to put up with a groping hand or two. Not all of Petyr's men like sex as much as he does, but in long waits between raids there often isn't much to do besides gamble and fuck. When there's money, there's women-- whores and desperate widows and rebellious farmers' daughters who read too many books. In the summer and fall come big-shouldered young boys who missed the last big war and want somewhere to prove themselves. But when the last scraps of fall give way to a cold, lean winter, there's only me. And a lonely man can only hear me moaning from Petyr's tent so many nights in a row without wanting some for himself. 

No money now, though. Not yet. So I'm dressed in the drab gray of an Uernish soldier, though the pants too big in the waist for me and I have to keep the hem bunched in one hand with no belt to hold them up. If I tuck my hair down in the collar, it helps to keep my neck warm. Some of the other men wearing the Uernis uniform have a long coat to go with it, good thick wool with a capelet made of leather to keep the rain out. I suppose it was part of the package, when they first received it, but my clothes came off of a dead man and I hadn't had a chance to ask him what he did with the rest of it. 

I do have a lighter, stiffer jacket in Drumte green, the sheepskin lining long since worn away, and one of the blankets from Gregor's bedroll that stinks like him. Still, the wind is frigid and it seems to move right through me, and no amount of shivering or chafing my arms will drive the burning chill from my skin. Not enough fat, Gregor had told me last night as he'd fondled my thighs and ass, his stubby cock drawing a line of moisture across my flesh. Bony like a sick dog. Barely good enough to fuck.

Someone sits next to me, shouldering into me and knocking me against the cab of the truck. I look up to find one of Petyr's men, the one with the fox's eyes and the ruddy cheeks. I recognize Drumte in the coarseness of his hair and the shape of his nose, though there's an obvious ridge where it's been broken at least once. He's younger than Petyr, much younger than Gregor; maybe one of those big-shouldered boys who actually managed to last the winter. He's got a rifle slung over his shoulder and an empty holster on his belt that might have had a pistol once, and the kind of wide, full mouth that smiles a lot when other people are crying.

He says something to me, in his barking Drumtan. When I don't reply, he hitches closer, putting an arm around me. With his other hand he gently unclenches my fingers from my waistband and brings them to his mouth, blowing on them to warm them. I lean into him and he makes an encouraging noise, letting me lay my head against his chest. I drink in his warmth, turning towards him though it means moving my weight onto the bone of my hip. He shifts, slipping one arm out of his coat and folding me in with him and when he guides my hand down between his legs I waste no time loosening his belt so I can get at his cock.

With my ear against his chest, I can hear and feel his breath quickening as I touch him. He's uncut, sensitive at the head, and I could get him off quickly if I wanted to, but I don't know if him sharing his warmth will last only as long as he does. So I stroke slowly, firmly, feeling him swell against my palm, stopping when he's close and letting the jouncing of the truck be the only movement between us. When I begin again the muscles in his abdomen tense, his cock flexing, balls tightening and then releasing again.

I close my eyes, listening to the growl of the truck's engine, the crunch of the frozen mud under the tires, the soft grunts of my fox-eyed companion as he nears climax. The smell of diesel exhaust, acrid and clinging to the back of my throat, is one that I associate with change: a change of scenery, moving through mountain passes and skirting around the larger settlements in the valleys to keep from running afoul of better fed, more adequately armed loyalist troops. A change of seasons, the grasses in the vast, flat prairies exploding briefly with wildflowers before baking gold in the summer heat. Summer is a good time to make war. Warm soil drinks spilled blood greedily, and bodies bloat, split, and rot away to bone in a matter of weeks. 

Petyr will kill a lot of my countrymen this year. Soldiers, yes, but also farmers, shepherds, charcoallers. Sinewy old men with soft bellies, their wailing wives, their shrieking children. Girls too young for petticoats and boys clutching arms they don't know how to use. Those of an age to be useful he sometimes brings back to camp, to while away the time between raids. For me it means a few weeks of rest while he sates himself somewhere else. But the boy won’t moan like I do, or the girl’s belly will swell, and Petyr will want to be rid of them.

Of course, killing someone is a fine way to while away the hours as well. 

The first time he fucks me after putting down one of his trophies is always rougher, more passionate, leaving my knees chafed and my hips aching. I make sure to scream out my pleasure and buck as I come, throwing my head back and making all the motions that he likes. In the night, I climb on top of him and grind against him until he’s hard again, suck him off and swallow greedily. I arch my back and spread my legs and let him watch me touch myself, to remind him how much better it is to have me than some dirty, sobbing goatherd’s son. 

I know how hard his cock gets at the thought of killing me like he killed my mother and my sister. Pleasing him helps him decide I’m more interesting to him alive.

The tires hit a patch of ice on the road and the truck fishtails sharply to one side, nearly throwing half of us out onto the road. Fox-eyes' arm tightens around my shoulders and we cling to each other as the truck's back end swings in the other direction. The treeline rushes up at us; I shut my eyes. 

Maybe it'll be quick. Maybe it won't hurt.

"--I said take your foot off the _fucking_ gas!"

I lift my head. The truck had rotated ninety degrees before finally coming to a stop; we're stalled sideways across the road. Petyr has gotten out of the cab and stalked over to the driver's side, wrenching the door open and dragging the man behind the wheel down into the mud. Petyr delivers several sharp kicks, shouting in Drumtan and paying no heed to the man's whimpering attempts at apology or the barking of the dogs in the truck ahead of us. 

Fox-eyes leans back, letting out his breath in a whoosh. I laugh shakily, my mouth stretching into a rictus of a grin to keep from crying. Petyr gets behind the wheel of the truck and after a few moments the engine sputters to life and we're pointed in the right direction again. The driver, limping and coughing, just manages to climb into the bed with us as we pass. Someone offers him a flask and he takes it gratefully. 

I've still got my fingers wrapped around Fox-eyes' cock. He's lost his erection, but it doesn't take much to bring it back. We crest the hill and in the distance I can see the valley opening up below us, winter-bare fields already busy with plowmen working the soil after the first thaw. Then Fox-eyes puts his hand on the back of my head, pushing down hard. I wrap my lips around the head of his cock just in time for him to come in my mouth.


	2. two

The farmhouse has all the signs of a place once loved: a fence that had probably been whitewashed every summer is now gray with age and green with moss, unevenly repaired in places and missing entirely in others. Raised beds might have held vegetables or flowers once, but now are overrun with clover and dandelions. A handsome barn sits a hundred yards or so behind the house, though the only animal in sight is a skinny nanny goat, watching us with slotted eyes as Petyr signals the trucks to stop.

We've been traveling for hours; after finishing with fox-eyes I'd been happy to discover he was still willing to share his coat with me, and I'd fallen asleep against his shoulder. When I'd woken, we'd come down out of the mountains and through the narrowest part of the valley, arriving at the edge of the plains and the beginning of real civilization. Behind us were the dangerous, craggy slopes where Petyr kept out of sight of Loyalist forces; ahead, the road would widen as it stretched across the grasslands, winding through larger settlements and towns until it reached the capital.

But here, in the space between, are smaller farms and homesteads where people mostly deal and trade with their neighbors. The gently rolling hills and the never ending cycle of sow-tend-harvest is all they've ever known, the bigger cities on the plains little more than a collection of ideas and rumors that they'll never visit. Troops might pass through from time to time, passing out food and pamphlets that were both destined to end up in the outhouse, and Nikolai's cousin's cousin had once caught a glimpse of the Queen as she'd ridden through the village down the road. But if laws were written and passed, if Kings were born or died, the chickens would still need feeding and the cow would still need milking.

Petyr and his convoy of trucks are an unusual and unwelcome sight in this place. As he hops down from his seat, a woman emerges from the farmhouse, clutching a broom in both hands like it's a weapon. A boy appears beside her, taller than her by a head but terribly underfed-looking compared to her middle-aged bulk. He stands close enough to her that it isn't clear if he's protecting her or clinging to her. 

"Hello! We've come a long way, is your husband at home?" 

Petyr's Uernish is clear and unaccented and his smile is wide. I watch the woman take him in: he's dressed in old, battered Uernish infantry fatigues but he carries himself like an officer. He's left his rifle in the truck but his pistol is in its holster on his hip, and it's hard to miss that most of the men behind him are armed. 

The boy shrinks back as Petyr approaches; the woman stands her ground, shoulders square. "My husband isn't here," she says, but doesn't elaborate. The boy's eyes dart to her, and then away.

"That's all right," Petyr says. "That's perfectly all right. It's the woman who really runs the house in any case, isn't that right?"

Her expression doesn't soften. "What do you want?"

"Shelter for the night," Petyr says. "That's all. Some straw to bed down on and a place to make a fire away from the road. Looks like you've got a good sturdy barn out there, I'd be glad to pay you for the use of it."

Again, the woman remains stony-faced, but the boy shifts a little, lifting his head.

"I don't know who you are," she says, "and I don't want any trouble. I'm sorry."

Petyr shakes his head. "Of course, of course. We've come out of nowhere with no introduction, looking as rough as we do, and you with your husband gone. My name is Petyr Drozdov. These are my men. We've come out of Kellet province on our way to Jonnesburg."

"Kellet?" The boy's voice is softer than I thought it would be, and I pull down my estimate of his age by a few years. What I had taken for the effects of a hungry winter might just be the gangly, skinny limbs of a growing teenager. "Are you with the Plug Army? The rebels?"

"Sacha!" The woman hisses, taking her eyes off of Petyr for the first time to glare at the boy, who wilts a little.

"We're not Loyalists," Petyr says. "One of His Majesty's soldiers would never offer to _pay_ for what they took from you."

"They've been through here before," Sacha says. 

"I don't want any trouble," the woman says again. "It's best if you move on."

Petyr sighs. He sets his hands on his hips, the fingers of his right hand just brushing the butt of his pistol. "We'll have to try to push on to Jonnesburg, then. Such a long way in those trucks, though, with no rest in between."

"Mamá," Sacha whispers, turning pleading eyes on the woman. She ignores him.

"I will make you a deal." Petyr reaches into a pocket and draws out a gleaming gold coin. "One crown. Give us three hours and the use of your well so my men can drink and refill their canteens. Anything you need done by a man, I'll set someone to take care of it for you while we're here. We'll be gone before sundown."

I've never handled money. Petyr and Gregor sometimes talk of this or that many crowns or rills or silvers, marveling at how much or complaining that it isn't enough. I don't know how much a single crown is worth to a peasant woman on a dying farm, but I do know that for the first time since we've arrived, her expression is uncertain. 

"And another crown if you could see about a hot meal for my friend and I." A second coin emerges from Petyr's pocket; they clink together in his palm as he offers them to her. 

The woman's lips thin as she sets her jaw. She transfers the broom handle to one hand, and reaches out with the other to take the coins. "Just two of you," she says as Sacha beams. "I don't have enough food for a dozen soldiers."

"We're fifteen men, actually," Petyr says, his fingers brushing hers as money exchanges hands. "And four dogs. You have my thanks, Mrs...?"

"Pasternak." She jerks her head at the trucks. "The well is behind the barn. Keep your dogs away from my chickens."

Petyr smiles, making a courtly bow, then turns back to us, calling out to the lead driver and gesturing toward the barn. He catches my eye and crooks a finger at me; as I climb out of the truck bed, I see Mrs. Pasternak testing the gold crowns between her teeth. 

"Is it true, then?" Sacha asks. "You're Plugs?"

"I fought in the western plains war," Petyr says. "In the service of His Majesty." He glances down at the boy. "Your father did too, didn't he?"

Sacha nods. "How did you--"

"Because it seems like," Petyr glances around at the fallen fence, the overgrown garden, the pitiful goat. "He didn't come back." 

I come to stand beside them, tugging my jacket closer around me. Sacha is staring down at his shoes, shoulders hunched, mouth a tight little pucker of grief. 

"I think it'll take a little while for my men to get settled and for your Mamá to cook up something to eat," Petyr says. "How about you come and show me the well, so I can draw up some water for my dogs."

Sacha looks up, his eyes going to the dogs that have been let out of the truck and are milling around on the side of the road, sniffing at the yellowed bunches of grass and pissing on the fenceposts. "...Are they friendly?"

"No," Petyr laughs. "Not at all. But Gennadiya, she'll let you pet her if I tell her it's alright." He lifts his head, putting two fingers in his mouth and letting out a piercing whistle that makes me flinch. 

All of the dogs turn to look, but it's Petyr's old bitch Genna that comes trotting over, a half-blind mutt with bristly orange fur.  
She’s gone white at the muzzle and her hide is speckled with old scars from countless scraps with the other dogs. Thick-necked and loose-skinned, no animal has ever gotten enough of a hold on Genna to do any lasting damage, but she's been the end of a handful of unwary pups and disrespectful mates. 

And others.

I edge away as Genna comes plodding up to us, black tongue lolling. Petyr crouches down to scratch her ears, then beckons to Sacha. "Scratch her rump," Petyr advises. "She likes that."

Sacha reaches down. Genna doesn't take her eyes off of Petyr, but a growl rises from her, muzzle wrinkling. Petyr laughs. "Don't worry, even if she tried to bite you, she doesn't have too many teeth left."

I take another step back, tucking my hands beneath my arms. In the distance, the old nanny goat has stopped her chewing and is watching the approach of the other dogs with suspicion. Sacha extends his hand again, hesitating when Genna's growl grows louder, then gingerly pats her on her back, near the base of her tail. Her growl reaches a crescendo, but her tongue retracts and she hangs her head, back leg kicking spasmodically. 

Petyr grins. "There, see? She's like any woman: she'll tell you she doesn't like it, but she can't hide what her body wants." 

He thumps the dog's side, then straightens up. Sacha backs off and Genna trots away again, snuffling after where the rest of the pack had gone. I take in a breath, feeling as though I've swallowed a stone. 

"Sacha," Mrs. Pasternak speaks from the doorway of the house, her broom still in one hand. "Go and get one of the chickens. Not the laying hens." She glances at Petyr. "The old buff, she'll do. Mind you cull her the way I showed you, it puts the others off laying if there's a lot of squawking."

"But," Sacha says, mouth turning down, "Mamá, do I _have_ to--"

"Show me the coop," Petyr cuts in. "I know how to cull a chicken. Pup, you go on and help Mamá in the kitchen with anything she needs. Come on now, let's meet the little lady who's going to be my dinner."

Petyr and Sacha walk off together; I watch Petyr put an arm around Sacha's bony shoulders. When they've gone, I turn to look at Mrs. Pasternak, who does not look at all pleased at my assignment as her helper. She does set the broom down, though, and as she turns to go into the house, she says, "Wipe your feet before you come in."

I haven't been inside anything other than a tent in over a year. There are a few scattered settlements in Kellet where we stay in the winter, run-down huts where pig men live in the warmer times, their thatched roofs left to rot through once their occupants return to the valley. 

Sacha's home has a sturdy slate roof, however, and though it's dim and stuffy due to the shuttered windows, it's warm and smells sweetly of the tarragon hanging in bundles from the rafters to dry. There is only one room, two sagging beds standing against one wall, and in the center of the space a pot bellied stove radiates heat, its narrow chimney kinking up towards the ceiling. 

I drift toward the stove, putting my hands out to warm them. The heat is painful at first, but I draw closer: everything that feels good is painful at first. Distantly, I hear Petyr's laugh. The bark of a dog. 

"You."

Mrs. Pasternak is watching me from the other side of the stove, hands on her generous hips. "Speak Uernish?" 

I stare at her. Only her belly keeps her breasts from sagging to her waist, I think. But much of the padding on her body is loose skin. She used to be fatter. She has a sprinkling of dark hairs on her upper lip, and a few more on her chin. I don't think Sacha is her only child-- maybe just the last to leave home. I imagine her nipples like fleshy digits from years of suckling, her cunt a doughy, sexless lump.

Maybe she'll be safe. 

"Speak anything?" She asks again, louder, then huffs and rolls her eyes. She takes a battered pot from off the top of the stove and shoves it into my arms. "Carry that," she orders, and marches toward the door. "Come with me."

Outside, Petyr's men have cleared a space for a small fire, feeding it with goat dung and bunches of moldy straw from the barn. Some of them have already been to the well and back, their faces and hands red from a scrubbing in cold water. Several buckets have been set near the fire to warm, and two men are walking back along the road, pulling up young dandelions to boil. 

Gennadiya, laying with her head between her paws beside the fire, growls as we walk past. Fox-Eyes, sitting on an empty diesel can, lifts his head and calls out in Drumtan, resulting in a round of laughter from the other men. Someone whistles and someone else makes an exaggerated kissing noise. Agitated, one of the dogs snaps at another. I keep my eyes down. 

The well consists of a mossy ring of rocks stacked atop one another surrounding a deep pit. A bucket on a rope is the only way to draw up water, though it looks like there may have been a wooden pulley at some point, judging by the rotted wooden stump jutting out of the ground. Mrs. Pasternak casts another suspicious look at me, nodding at me to set the pot down on the lip of the well as if I'm going to go running off with it. Then she throws the bucket into the well, pausing to listen for the splash before grunting as she hauls it back up.

"You don't look Drumtan," she says, dumping the first bucket of water into the pot. "Not with that color hair. You look like a Plainsman."

I look like my mother. At least that's what Petyr has told me, that I'm pretty like a girl, that I have a woman's mouth. He usually says it when I'm sucking him off. 

"Those soldiers, though," she continues, grunting as she hauls the rope hand-over-hand, "I know Drumtan filth when I see it. The one with the skinny eyes. And your captain." She spits. "He talks like he was born on the steps of the winter palace. Friendly, smiling. That's how you can tell he's a liar." Another bucket of water into the pot. "No one from there gives a shit about us."

The pot is much heavier when it's full. I struggle to lift it, sloshing water over the edge, and after a few steps Mrs. Pasternak huffs at me and takes it from my hands, balancing it on her hip and walking away from me. I let her go, leaning back against the well with my hands in my lap, flexing fingers chapped and aching with the cold. 

She's right about Petyr-- that he's a liar, at least. He's Uernish, not Drumtan, but the place where he was born is so far away from Kellet and this little farmhouse and Jonnesburg and even the capital that it may as well be another country. He told me the name of it, once, and pointed to it on a map. He'd drawn his finger across the map, the same way he stroked it across my skin, and showed me where I was from and how far apart the two were. 

The map had been in a language I didn't know, but I knew the shape of my country and I knew that the big red dot was the capital and the smaller ones were cities that were large enough to be important, some of which I'd been to by train. My sister had gone to the capital for a year, to go to school, and when she'd returned she'd been full of stories of it and the people who lived there: scholars from every part of the world, bright dresses made from exotic fabric on display in shop windows. She'd worn her hair in a modern style and talked about going to parties where she drank coffee with men and discussed politics and war. 

I don't have to wonder whether anyone in the capital cares about Mrs. Pasternak and her little farmstead in the foothills. To Petyr and his men, she and Sacha are there to be used up, plucked and devoured like the dandelions alongside the road. To the people in the capital, however, she doesn't exist. They don't think about her at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks for Ceebee for the beta as well as ol' Seb for letting me bounce ideas off of him, and to the Almighty Patron whose funds enabled me to take a break from my day job to work on this.
> 
> More awfulness to follow.


End file.
